


Fall Seven, Stand Eight

by d8rkmessngr



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Presumed Dead, Protectiveness, References to Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d8rkmessngr/pseuds/d8rkmessngr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone was saved and someone was rescued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall Seven, Stand Eight

**Author's Note:**

> I officially blame CandyApple for steering me to new pretty (as if I hadn't enough plot bunnies to write, LOL).

The ropes bit into his wrists, tighter than Bailey's because Don had made some comment about the guy's BO that wasn't appreciated. Don called it constructive criticism. Bailey called it out right stupidity. Tomato. To-mah-to.

"...we should have waited for a search warrant and..."

Bailey was still going on and on. Probably because the detective had warned Don this could happen. Well, Bailey hadn't exactly warned him about Fletcher catching them snooping around the warehouse, or the shootout (Fletcher shot first) or getting hauled into some unknown basement, tied up to two ridiculous looking chairs which probably meant they were expensive and antique and maybe had a name like Chippendale although every time he heard Tim say—

Don set his jaw and stared hard at the door that had stayed shut since they'd been left down there. He'd long since relaxed the arms he'd kept flexed the whole time Ugly One and Two had been wrapping them with hemp and continued sawing at them with the sliver of glass he'd forced deep into his left palm after he was knocked into the ground. If he'd maybe done an extra arm flail, an extra twist that sent him crashing into the desk with the water pitcher, the assholes dismissed it as something 'one of his kind' would do. 

Bailey apparently didn't do well with sitting around and doing nothing either because he kept going. "...still don't know for sure if Peyton is involved—"

"He's involved," Don bit out. He breathed harshly through his mouth. His nose had swelled up like it was some twisted form of hay fever, blocking out everything but the coppery, sharp scent of blood. His blood. Fletcher's blood. Ti—no, not his. No. _No_.

"He signed his name on our bedroom wall," Don spat out. "Bastard wanted me to know exactly who took Tim." Don had come home from an all night stakeout (he'd even dragged Bailey along as he promised Tim he would) to find their bedroom door hanging off one hinge, the bedsheets stained and torn and the wall graffiti-ed with "Fuck with me and we'll fuck with him" in brown, dried flaking...paint. It was paint.

"Strachey..." Bailey sighed, having run out of steam on his monologue of everything they should have done instead. 

"I'll kill him," Don mumbled. He could feel Tim's glasses still tucked in his front pocket. He'd found them, cracked, speckled in what he knew had to be paint, left on top of Don's pillow in the center of the bed, like some mystical glass slipper. The responding forensics guy threw a fit when he had caught Don folding them carefully to take with him. Don threw a bigger fit; Tim would need his glasses when he came back; he could barely see a wall a foot away without them. 

There was a lot of macho shoving and shouldering and yelling until Bailey arrived. He took one look at the scene and dragged Don downstairs to sit and watch a sea of uniforms traipsing in and out of their home.

Bailey reappeared in front of him, minutes later, and wordlessly handed over Tim's glasses wrapped in linen like a funeral shroud.

The thugs had snickered when they found them after patting him down. Ugly Two had held them up, batted his eyes peering through them and was about to stomp on them when he caught a glimpse of Don's face. Unease flickered across his dark features and he scoffed as he tucked them back into Don's pocket, muttering he didn't want no fairy's blood on his shoes anyway.

Don head-butted the bastard and got his nose swollen three times its size for it.

Don could hear Bailey muttering next to him, grunting as he tested his own bindings.

"Well, Strachey, are you free yet?"

A dark twist curled up a corner of his mouth. Don turned to Bailey. "How'd you know?"

Bailey rolled an eye, only one because the other had puffed shut. "Because that was the most graceful fall I've ever seen you take under a punch. It was like a dance. Those goons were too busy congratulating themselves to realize you pulled a fast one."

Don grunted. He twisted, his chair with its metal tipped legs, scraped across the floor like nails on a blackboard. He angled his bound fists towards Bailey. Judging by Bailey's sympathetic grimace, it wasn't pretty.

"Almost," Don croaked. 

"Good. I think I remember a side exit when they brought us in. We can go out that way, find a payphone and—"

"No," Don said between clenched teeth. He felt one thick cord splintering away from his wrists. "You go, I'm staying."

He could feel Bailey's stare in the long pause. "He might not be here."

Another strand snapped, slithering painfully over raw skin before splitting apart. "He might be."

Bailey cleared his throat. Don almost snarled at that.

"Look...Donald, there's a chance he might be—"

"No."

"The amount of blood on that bed—"

" _No_."

Bailey thankfully fell silent. Don kept cutting.

What was the last thing they'd said to each other on the cell last night? Something about...tickets? The Jay Baystein Dinn—Don had hung up on Tim mid-word. He had blurted a hurried apology to him as he and Bailey had sighted Peyton. Don hastily promised to tell Tim about the case when he got home. Damn it, he'd also promised Tim to pick up some olives the day before but he forgot. Again. Tim never mentioned all the things Don carelessly promised because complaining wasn't something Tim did. And Tim was entitled. His beautiful Timothy, stuck with a walking wreck like Don, but never complaining, always acting like he was given some big, damn reward because he was with Don. 

What kind of fucking reward was it to be grabbed from their home, from their bed?

Another strand broke, something hot and wet wept from his torn wrist and down his fingers. He nearly dropped the slick shard.

"Almost," Bailey said suddenly, like a sports announcer, firing off a comment when the Rangers played. Timmy could never understand it no matter how many times Don tried to explain. There were just some things Tim couldn't grasp. But he'd sit with Don anyway; his hand idly tracing the lines of Don's scarred kneecap like it was an artifact every time they watched. He'd sit there, their shoulders touching, his brow furrowed as he tried hard to follow the tiny players on the screen, listening intently to the announcer as if it was Senator Glassman herself, wincing as players slammed into the tempered glass walls or as the keeper dove for the puck. 

Once, early on, when they'd still been just dating, Don had asked him why: why stick around to watch something he couldn't understand? Why waste his time? Tim had canted his head towards Don, a small private smile on his lips. He shrugged, turned back to the screen and murmured he didn't think it was a waste of time, that he was sure it was going to be worth it in the end.

Don had stared at the side of his face uncertainly. Then had simply slid a hand over Tim's on his knee and kept it there the whole time turning back to the screen. But his mind wasn't fully on the game any longer, distracted by the reassuring weight of their combined hands curled almost protectively over his knee. It was the tentative first time in a long time he hadn't felt Kyle standing accusing and bloody behind him.

There was one strand that wrapped around his wrist that ground into his flesh, squeezing blood and sweat out. It finally loosened and dropped.

Don tested his binds again. He grunted and shook his head when Bailey asked again if he was free. 

Free was never a word Don thought for himself. Trapped, cornered, smothered, bound were part of his vocabulary, never mind the other words he had for his job. 

Tim, however, was free. He accepted the loss of the seminary and life as a gay man with grace and never with the anger Don knew he wasn't always successful in suppressing. Tim freely loved Don, supported and accepted Don. He treated their lives like he'd been waiting for exactly this all his life. At first, Don had pushed him away because he was flooded with ghosts, memories and self-loathing. Tim simply stood like some Zen rock planted in the middle of a raging river. He let it all wash over him, until Don's ripples calmed, smoothed out. Don found it easier to breathe, to keep his head above the deluge to finally feel. He'd cradled Don when Don's past bled out of him like a dark, shameful secret. Tim's ever calm acceptance shaped Don into the man he wanted to be for Tim, even if Tim never asked for it.

Don's head dipped. He thought about how much he feared drowning.

The last coil of rope shifted but wouldn't release. It rubbed into his wrists and his fingertips felt damp and hot.

Footsteps neared the door and Don's head shot up. He glared as Charles Peyton entered the room, dressed in a dark gray suit Tim could have pulled off as classy while it made the drug dealer look like a pimp. Peyton wagged a finger at them both, a smirk that contorted his normally plain milk pale face to something feral.

Peyton tsked as he came down the stairs, waved back his thug and let the door shut behind him. "I warned you not to screw with me, Strachey."

"I didn't," Don drawled as he tracked Peyton pacing left and right. "You're not my type. Size _does_ matter to me."

The backhand that cut abruptly across his jaw wasn't a surprise.

Peyton shook his hand. He grimaced as he surveyed his reddened knuckles. "Where's my witness?"

"You mean _Bailey's_ witness?" Don quipped. He turned his head and spat out blood. "Probably talking to the assistant DA right now." He narrowed his eyes. "Where's Tim?"

Peyton flushed at the news that his former bookkeeper might be singing to the state prosecutor. His mouth pulled into a sneer at the question though. "I don't know."

"Where. Is. He?" Don ground out. 

Peyton scratched his chin with a finger before he chuckled. "I honestly don't know. Pity, if you weren't so trigger happy and killed Fletcher." Peyton shrugged his narrow shoulders with false nonchalance. "Only Fletcher knew."

Bailey sounded like he didn't want to know, but asked anyway. "Knew what?" He flicked his eyes over to Don.

"Where he dumped the body."

The air thinned. Bailey next to him uttered something that might have been a prayer or a curse. Don couldn't speak. He could only stare.

Spurred on by his captive audience, Peyton smiled as if he was sitting down for tea. "I'm afraid Fletcher was a little too enthusiastic." Peyton's laugh was like rough gravel. "He wanted to see what all the fuss was about with you poufs."

Don's vision narrowed to Peyton's sneer. His chest clenched, ribs caving in until his heart was slamming against bone, howling for release. 

"Pity, I was curious myself but Fletcher was never known for his finesse but oh, he always did enjoy his work," Peyton sneered.

Heat rippled down his arms, boiling skin, nerves, blood in its path. His eyes burned. Peyton blurred into something unrecognizable in shape and color.

There was a cold edge to Peyton's glee as he continued, "I heard your girlfriend screamed for you all nigh—"

A sound tore out from the back of his throat. Bailey shouted. Something bristly and thick snapped around his arms and suddenly his hands were in front of him, pulling him off the chair that shattered, crossing the room.

It didn't register he was on top of Peyton until bone crunched under his fists. Something hot splattered across his face. Peyton screamed—tried to—before he gurgled. Don shouted something, something wordless, something primal that fueled his fists and rose up in a red haze over his eyes. 

A door opened just as Peyton dropped and failed to get up again. Don spun around to the hulking frame that filled the doorway. Something silver in his hand glinted but it wasn't enough to deter Don as he stalked forward.

And then, the man fell. A hollow, metallic sound rang in his wake.

Don stared at the slumped man twice his size now crumpled at his feet. 

Numbly, Don lifted his eyes. A man leaned heavily on the doorframe with what looked like a fireplace poker in his grasp. He dropped the poker, flinching when it rattled down the steps. He followed, falteringly, swaying with one hand on the wall.

"I didn't think three years of tennis club would be useful like this," the man whispered as he wrapped an arm around his bare middle and shivered. "I guess it's true the bigger they are, the harder they—"

Don surged forward, his arms wrapping around the shoulders, yanking the body to him. He heard a yelp, felt Tim stumble down the last two steps into an ungainly heap in Don's arms. They crashed to the floor because suddenly, Don couldn't stand.

"Donald..." There was a muffled protest, a warm breath of life, pure life that caressed his throat. Don pulled the body closer, his chin jammed down on top of a dark, tousled head, his hands curled around biceps. 

Warm muscle quivering from the rush of adrenaline petered to a boneless slump the longer Don held Tim, clutching him in hopes he could bury Tim under his skin. He splayed a palm flat high on Tim's back and felt the steady thump against it. Don pressed his face into the curve of Tim's neck. He breathed in the solid feel of Tim. 

Tim stilled, sensing as he always had what Don really needed. He stayed in Don's embrace, his chest at first heaving from his own narrow escape, then calming as he raised his hands up and rested them on Don's lower back with equal strength.

"Said you were dead," Don mumbled into Tim's throat. 

Arms around him tightened. Tim rubbed his chin against his temple. Don could feel him swallowing hard as he turned his head to consider the bodies, only one breathing, one too broken to be recognizable. Tim shuddered, curled into Don's hold. "Heard they were tor-hurting you."

"They didn't," Don rasped. Not in a way that bled out and could be stemmed. He could feel Bailey watching them, surprisingly quiet. Sirens filled the distance.

"Not dead," Don repeated fiercely into the soft patch of skin behind Tim's ear. It felt vulnerable under his lips and Don hugged Tim closer until he thought he could hear Tim's ribcage creak.

Tim dropped his head to Don's shoulder and simply breathed.

\---------------------------------------------------

The ER determined their injuries—bruises, abrasions, mild hypothermia—were not life-threatening. They promised Bailey to give their statements in the morning and signed AMAs. Dinner was unanimously vetoed in favor of sleep. But after climbing up the stairs that seemed to have doubled since he was last there, Don found he couldn't go into their bedroom. Even stripped of the bedding, Don's nostrils still flared at the remembered scent of blood, his ears still ringing with Peyton's taunts. He stood at the broken door, staring at the torn yellow police tape sagging around the door knob and felt a little lost.

Tim curled his hand loosely around Don's and led him back downstairs to the living room. Don felt a momentary jolt of panic when Tim slipped away but it was only fleeting because Tim soon returned to clobber him with two goose down cymbals over his ears. It was with a laugh that was half-choked with hysteria, Don pounced a giggling exhausted Tim. They wrestled briefly on the couch among the mounds of pillows and spare bedding.

Now the coffee table was moved aside, the layers of quilted bedding lay out in front of the fireplace. Tim, naked and silent, was spread out before Don. He watched as Don map and relearn what he thought he had lost hours before.

Don trailed fingers down the plane of Tim's chest, the sharp silk of body hair kissing his fingertips as they traveled. Tim watched him, his eyes so dark and blue; it was like looking up at a vast and endless sky. 

Mouthing his way down Tim's chest, Don could feel Tim's cock, rising hot and weeping, trapped between their bodies. He felt Tim's legs parting and he settled between them, feeling Tim's inner thighs brushing warm and silken against his flank. 

Tim arched his head back, baring a throat that appeared both vulnerable and strong as Don kissed the cords that strained there, down to the collarbone where he swirled the tip of his tongue into the secret hollows that spread across Tim's shoulders.

Tim whimpered. It was the only sound he made throughout Don's worship, a soft, almost non-existent sound that escaped parted lips as Don mouthed one nipple, then the next until they pebbled under the light nips of his teeth. 

Long fingers threaded through Don's hair as he laved a wet path along the subtle ridges of Tim's ribs. Don's hands splayed to brace along lean flanks, gathering Tim up in his grasp—flesh and precious blood that thrummed within his body. Don paid extra attention to the purpled shadows of fingers and fists that peppered the bony ridge of a hip and trailed lower to his groin. But Don was assured by both Tim, and later quietly by the doctor, that Fletcher hadn't…he just hadn't. But Don still felt rage choking him as Tim flinched initially at the responding officers abrupt flip open of a notebook and then later at the duty nurse unexpectedly drawing the curtain aside.

Don kissed the soft skin on the fold where Tim's hip and groin meet. He nosed one bruise, breathed wetly on it before continuing downward. Don pushed himself onto his elbow, his finger drawing circles of protection around each reddening mark and yellowing expanse along Tim's thigh, his belly, his other thigh. Tim's hips helplessly jerked up beneath his stroking fingers, neglected erection quivering, hardening.

Don shook his head, the words trapped in his throat. There was so much that needed to be said; things he took for granted to be understood. He stared at the skin, flushed from his touch, damp with sweat, humming with life so close to him. Don's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again but nothing would come out. A million words and emotions and he couldn't speak. He raised his eyes up and met Tim's.

Wordlessly, Tim rolled to his stomach. He hugged a pillow to his face, arms and cushion tucked under his chin.

Don swallowed. He crawled up to Tim's back, his lips tracing lightly down the elegant line of his spine. The length of his body hovering protectively over him. He could feel Tim shifting, no doubt feeling Don's cock grazing his lower back, down to brush the crack of his ass until it lay heavy on the back of his thigh.

The prep was slow, tentative, because Don wouldn't trust himself to gauge when Tim was ready. From the gasps and intake of breaths, and the panted murmurs of encouragement, Tim thought he was ready though, but Don placed a settling hand on a cheek, stroking and smoothing, gently easing in back and forth until Tim's body easily accepted three fingers. 

When Don slicked himself up, he had to take a deep breath; his hands shook so hard, his wrists ached. Don let his hands glide up the curve of Tim's ass, thumbs spreading him open, it wasn't only to line himself up. He needed the connection, the feel of fragile skin warm and supple over muscle and bone. 

He hesitated at the entrance and then there was a full body shiver as his cock inched into Tim's body until he was fully sheathed. He pushed deep enough to lance across the gland inside, deep enough, Tim's body _clenched_ around him. 

The pace was slow. Until it wasn't. 

Don buried his face into Tim's shoulder as his hips surged forward, Tim rearing back to meet each stroke because he always countered Don's every move with a certain strength uniquely his own. 

His hands ran eagerly down Tim's arms and sides to feel each flex, each shudder as he thrust and withdrew repeatedly into Tim's body. Don's lower back vibrated from the strain of holding back as much as he could; to not devour Tim and savor the life braided so closely around his that Don couldn't see himself surviving should they ever unfurl. 

Don's toes curled as they pressed against Tim's calves, bracing Tim as Tim rose almost to his knees, pressing back to match him.

The pulse point Don mouthed, beat frantically, racing to match Tim's heart Don could feel when he slipped an arm around Tim's chest splaying his hand there. 

Tim threw his head back, almost knocking into Don's nose as he writhed, bucking under the pace they both set. His skin was slick with sweat; it tasted salty, warm and undeniably Tim. Tim whispered Don's name, mixed with gulps of air, slurred all together into a mantra. He keened wordlessly as he shook through his orgasm, the shockwave rippling down to Don's cock and Don gave a shudder of his own as the fire pooled in his groin releasing thick ropes of cum into Tim. Hot and pulsing.

Strength fled as Don eased out of Tim. His arms shook, trying to stay above Tim. Don stared at the line of Tim's shoulders and watched the muscles playing down his back, strong under the bruises there. A strangled sound clawed out of Don's throat.

"Sh, I'm okay..." Tim twisted around, his voice breathless, yet soothing in his ear. Don felt arms slip around his middle, pulling him to lie on top of Tim. Tim kissed the ragged scrape on his forehead, hands cradling the back of his head as he turned them to lie on their sides. They curled towards each other, perfect yin-yang, arms entwined.

"I'm okay..." Tim shushed Don. 

Don's throat wouldn't work, _couldn't_ and he could barely hear Tim as Peyton leered in his memory and told him about a bloody, empty bed that meant Don's life no longer held any value.

"Donald..." Tim's voice wobbled. He pulled Don's face towards him and kissed his nose, his damp cheeks, his jaw, his mouth. He rolled with Don until he was on top, blanketing Don with his body.

In a quiet voice, Tim began to talk. He talked about waking up to a sound and finding Fletcher leering down at him. Of fighting. Tim's words slipped, flattening to a monotone as he told Don about remembering their playful self defense lessons when they'd first gotten together, of slamming his head hard into Fletcher's face, breaking his nose. 

As Tim leaned into Don's cupped hand on his jaw, he told Don about waking up in a strange room. His voice was unsteady as he quoted Charles Peyton telling him how they were flaying Don alive downstairs, how Tim could end Don's agony if he told him where the witness was. But Don had never told Tim. Peyton didn't believe Tim. Then he was left to Fletcher. Of scrabbling beneath him. Hand stretching out for a weapon, any weapon, as Fletcher dragged Tim to him. Don had always said anything could be a weapon if you wanted it to be badly enough. He'd slashed Fletcher across the stomach with a broken nightstand picture frame. Knocking him unconscious as he reared back bleeding. 

Don closed his eyes as he listened to how Tim untied his himself and crept up behind the man guarding the door with an iron poker. 

Bile rose up Don's mouth as Tim recounted how he _didn't_ leave, _didn't_ call the police and _didn't_ heed every other precaution Don had ever tried to teach him as he wandered around a strange house, barefoot and bleeding with just a poker in his grasp.

_Christ._

"I'm all right," Tim murmured as he pulled Don's bruised knuckles to his mouth. He kissed them as if he was bowing gallantly before Don. "You saved me. I'm all right." 

Don pressed his mouth to Tim's, his kiss deepening when Tim's lips parted to accept Don's tongue. Don tasted him, his clean, undeniably _alivealivealive_ essence.

When they parted, Tim huffed, ruffling Don's hair over his brow with his exhale. "I got lost so many times. I kept thinking about them hurting you somewhere in that house. And you were already free." Tim smiled self-deprecatingly. "To think...I came to save you."

The words in Don's chest settled and deciphered. He crushed Tim to him, his eyes burning as he croaked out the words from a throat dry with disuse. 

He held on fiercely. "You already did."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you dear SierraIndigo betaing yet another fic in yet another fandom for me despite your nutty life. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome and much appreciated.


End file.
